


Like Schroedinger's Cat

by ThreeGalaxies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Dubious Consent, Fluff, It's fluffy crack about sort of necrophilia, M/M, Necrophilia, Oh god, Post Reichenbach, but only technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeGalaxies/pseuds/ThreeGalaxies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson can raise people from the dead by having sex with them. </p>
<p>He attempts to use his power on Sherlock after Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Schroedinger's Cat

**Author's Note:**

> It's from [this prompt ](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117395487#t117395487) on the kink meme.
> 
> Sort of based on Pushing Daisies.

John Watson was nineteen years, five months and ten days old.  
He missed a few days of med school, and at this moment he was alone in the morgue at night, catching up on an autopsy.

The cause of death in this case could be determined without cutting the patient open; he had obviously had an unfortunate accident while enjoying himself, as he still had a makeshift noose around his neck and was stiff in more ways than one.

John Watson marked a Y on the man's chest and was preparing for the first incision, when it occurred to him to consider the rest of its anatomy. It was not the kind of thing he had an opportunity to study up close, and it would most certainly be relevant during his career as a doctor (if you're wondering whether that was only a justification for more prurient interests, let me assure you that John Watson was a man pure of heart, and would never, ever entertain such a notion.)

John cut through the man's trousers and pants with scissors and pulled them aside.  
He lent down to examine the foreskin, and was just considering getting a scalpel, when several things happened very quickly.

First, John lightly touched the foreskin, and then there was a very loud yell. John jumped back and up, stumbling as he did so. His hand felt sticky. He looked up, and saw the man on the table sitting bolt upright. What John thought was an exclamation of surprise or anger instead appeared to be a cry of pleasure.

A few seconds later the man regained his composure, noticed John and scrambled to cover himself up.

'Where am I?'

'In a hospital.' 

Technically correct.

'You passed out,' John sounded a lot more calm and composed than he felt. 

He didn't know it yet, but this ability to quickly find his feet in odd situations would serve him well in the future.

'Let's get you cleaned up and out of here.'

John led the man down to lost and found, and got him some clothes to replace the ones he cut up. He washed the autopsy markings off the man's chest with an alcohol swab. He was thinking of some plausible explanation for this, but looking at the man he realised that he was far too confused and humiliated to notice what was going on.

As it turned out he was trying to come up with his own plausible explanation, some elaborate story where he slipped and fell into a noose while cleaning naked.

John made sure the man knew his own address and had money for a taxi before sending him home.

Then he went into the storage closet where the med students hid out for a break, sat down on the floor, and he stayed there for a really really long time.

Such things did happen of course, if very rarely. People declared dead, then waking up in the morgue as they are about to be buried. 

Surely it had nothing to do with him. He had performed many autopsies before, and nothing like this had ever happened.

Still, the next day he brushed his hand over a cadaver's face, half expecting it to come back to life, but it remained still and cold.

John Watson had another theory in the back of his mind, one that was a lot darker, but he wouldn't let himself think that through, let alone ever test it.

He realised a week later that he forgot to remove the man's toe tag. John wondered what he would make of that.

 

 

John Watson was twenty eight years, five months and twenty days old.  
He was trapped behind enemy lines, waiting for a rescue party that would arrive in five days.  
The body of one of his men was in the makeshift trench with him. John had recovered him at night, crawling centimetre by centimetre, but the man had been dead for some time by then.

There was nothing to do but wait. On the afternoon of the second day a thought had occurred to John, a thought that he had been successfully pushing to the back of his mind for some time now.  
It went against every fibre of his being. But Peterson, lying dead next to him, had been a good man and a good friend. Surely, if there was a chance to save him, John had to do it.

He got out his Medikit. First, he dug the bullets out of Peterson. One was lodged in his leg, but the other in his heart, absolutely fatal. He stitched the wounds up, and then he shot some morphine into the man. If this worked he would wake up in a lot of pain.

Then he got out a rubber glove and some Vaseline.

The moment John's finger pushed within, Peterson gasped and opened his eyes. John immediately withdrew.  
Peterson babbled incoherently, and yelped in pain when he tried to turn around. He was disoriented for some time, and apparently unaware of what had just taken place.

For the next three days John looked after him, and Peterson pulled through.  
It was indisputable. John could bring people back from the dead, through sexual touch.  
He had been given a gift, one that was more of a curse. He could save people, but at the cost of committing unspeakable acts. He couldn't live with that.

John Watson resolved to never use his gift again.

Soon after he was shot in the shoulder, and for some time he had no reason to think about raising the dead at all.

 

 

John Watson was thirty six years, eight months and twenty two days old.

After having been a Doctor and a Captain, he was now a Blogger.

He lived with Sherlock Holmes, the smartest man in the world, who could read anyone's secret in an instant.

Yet he never once suspected John's secret, and John himself thought of it rarely these days.

 

 

Sherlock Holmes was thirty four years, two months and twenty two days old, and he was officially dead.  
He wasn't actually dead, only on paper, in appearance, and the fact that he was laid out on a slab at the morgue.

The facts of the case were these:  
One obsessed criminal nemesis by the name of Moriarty threatened to destroy all the people Sherlock loved unless he committed suicide.  
He successfully faked his death, saving the lives of everyone, and was about to catch a flight to Norway under a new identity once the paperwork of his death had been finalised.

As Sherlock lay on a cold slab, sad about leaving his life behind, but all in all quite pleased with how the days events turned out - in particular with being apparently dead rather than actually dead - he heard a commotion outside.

There were quite a few yelps of pain and then stomping footsteps heading towards him. And the unmistakeable voice of Doctor Watson yelling, 'There is no way you will stop me from seeing him!', before the door to the morgue flew open and Sherlock had but a brief second to close his eyes and act dead.

This was very bad. He had many paid men in place to stop John Watson from getting in, but apparently a dozen of her Majesty's finest were no match for a determined diminutive army doctor. 

He could hear John's footsteps right up to him, and then a sharp intake of breath. And then... a sob?

Another set of footsteps followed John. These ones were slow and punctuated with sharp taps, like the tip of an umbrella hitting the floor.

'Piss off Mycroft. Let me have a moment with him in peace.' 

'Doctor Watson...'

The floor squeaked as John spun around on his heel. 

'Mycroft if you don't leave right fucking now I swear you will have to extract that umbrella from your rectum.'

Sherlock was awash in conflicting emotions. John couldn't possibly be left alone with him. This was absolutely terrible. And yet, this moment was utterly delightful.

Sherlock could hear Mycroft's footsteps receding, then the door swung shut behind him, and they were alone.

For a long moment he could only hear John's ragged breathing, but that was okay, he quite liked listening to John breathe.

'I swore I would never do this again,' John said, his voice thick with emotion.  
'It's a curse, it's a terrible curse that's been granted me.'

Sherlock was confused. From what he understood people in these circumstances usually cried a lot. Sometimes they said goodbye.  
But then John was hardly ordinary, maybe in this too he was different.

'But I can't imagine a world without you. Even if you will hate me afterwards, even if you never want to see me again, I have to do this for you.'

You don't have to imagine a world without me! Sherlock thought excitedly. Three years, four months and twenty two days was his current estimate for how long it would be until he could return to John.

'Here goes,' said John.

For a while nothing happened. Then Sherlock could feel John's breath on his face. It took all of his willpower not to shiver.

John must have lent in really close. Sherlock could feel fingers through his hair, his locks still matted with fake blood, then John withdrew his hand with a gasp.

'I'm sorry Sherlock,' he said.

And then Sherlock could feel his zip being undone.

This gave him quite a pause. Sherlock had only a very slight grasp of social conventions, but this was definitely unusual.

While he was distracted John managed to pull his trousers down over his hips.

Whatever was happening would certainly make it even more challenging to pretend to be dead.

Sherlock had considered scenarios that might lead to John Watson removing his trousers. In fact it could be said that he had done a thorough study of the variables, but lying on a slab in a morgue had never featured in any of them.

John’s hands were warm and calloused. His touch was the focused professional touch of a doctor. Sherlock wanted to lean into him, to thrust his hips forward. 

He tried to think about other things. Like how much danger John would be in if he knew that Sherlock was not actually deceased. 

But however much self control Sherlock had, his physiology betrayed him. Confusingly, wonderously, improbably, John Watson was holding him in his hand. How could he not get hard?

'Sherlock?' John asked with trepidation as Sherlock twitched in his hand.

Sherlock’s carefully crafted plan was falling apart around him, and yet, at this very moment he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

There was no point in trying to keep up the pretence any more, so Sherlock sat up. He wasn't sure what to say.  
'That's not how I expected that to happen,' he said.

John's face, just a moment ago contorted with grief, was now awash in incredulity, joy, pure unclouded happiness.  
John had a very expressive face. It was something Sherlock had frequently observed in the past.

'Sherlock!' John shouted, and then Sherlock was wrapped in the Army Doctor's arms. 

Despite some significant cockups, this was still turning out to be a rather fantastic day.

After the hug they both realised that John was still holding onto Sherlock, and John let go, once again looking anguished and guilty.

'It seems pointless to torture yourself over this John. Necrophilia seems a victimless crime.'

'Sherlock!' John looked like a small storm.

'I was only trying to comfort you about your unusual sexual preferences, which seem to be causing you distress.'

John deflated.

'I... Thank you, I guess.' He rubbed his eyes.  
'It's not a sexual preference Sherlock. I hate having to do this.'

John looked at him carefully. 'Sherlock, do you remember what happened earlier today? Do you remember being on the roof of Bart's? You jumped Sherlock. You... Died.'

Ah. This was bound to come up.

And then Sherlock said

'I faked my death.'

At the same time John said

'I can raise people from the dead.'

Then they were both silent for a while. And somewhat confused.

'John... I didn't die,’ Sherlock said in the end.

'I saw you jump Sherlock. You hit the pavement. I felt your wrist and you didn't have a pulse. No one could fake that.'

'Well,' Sherlock began, swelling with pride. 

'Wait, let me explain this. If I don't say it now I'll never be able to say it.'

Sherlock deflated. Explaining things to John was the best part. He got that sparkly look in his eyes, like he couldn't believe someone as smart as Sherlock could exist.  
He'd have to bring the conversation back around to the explanation again.

John solemnly recounted the story of his strange power and how he found out about it.

'I understand if you have a lot of questions,’ he said when he finished.

Sherlock considered this.

'John?'

'Yes?'

'I don't have a great deal of experience in this area, but do you think it's possible you've gone mad with grief over my death?'

‘Oh, for the love of… Okay, Sherlock, come on, we’re in a morgue, if you need a demonstration,’ John stormed off towards the other bodies laid out in the room.

‘I’d really prefer it if you didn’t demonstrate John. It would be absolutely fascinating from a scientific standpoint of course, but it seems to upset you a great deal.’

‘Yeah,’ John said deflating, and sat down next to Sherlock. ‘I swore I would never do it again. I just… I couldn’t imagine living in a world without you in it.’

'Why didn't you tell me about this before?’  
‘I was worried you’d make me molest victims to get information from them about their killers.’

Sherlock considered this for a moment.

‘There are hardly any criminals who are worth my time as is. Having insider information would make even those few cases extremely dull.’

'Sherlock, only you could call raising the dead through sexual molestation dull.'

Sherlock glanced the clock above the morgue door. Three fifty. Soon it would be time to go.

‘John, you weren’t supposed to know about me being alive yet. You are in a great deal of danger once again. I can’t leave you here, you won't be able to convincingly pretend to be mourning for me, and Moriarty's men will know something is up.  
There's no other option: you will have to come with me.'

'Sherlock, of course I'm going to come with you. That was never in question.'

'It's dangerous, and it will be a great deal more dangerous now. I was hoping to unravel Moriarty's web from the shadows. If you disappear on the day of my apparent death they will know something is up. They will be after us much quicker.'

'All the more reason you need me around you daft git,' John said, jumping off the slab.

'Wait,' John said, as something suddenly occurred to him. 'You were going to let me believe you were dead until you unravelled Moriarty's network. How long would that have been?'

' Three years, four months and twenty two days by my current estimate.'

John looked stony.

'A bit not good?' Sherlock asked.

'A bit very not good. We will have to talk about this Sherlock.'

'There should be an opportune window of time on the plane to Norway,' Sherlock said agreeably.  
'We can redefine the terms of our relationship then.'

'Okay. Wait, redefine what?'

'You would like to have a conversation about our respective responsibilities to each other, regarding disclosure as you are unhappy with the current terms. Hence a redefinition. Correct?'

'I guess when you put it like that, yeah, pretty much what I meant.'

Sherlock decided to broach another subject that’s been on his mind.

‘So it would appear that you don't engage in this activity for private pleasure?' he asked.

'No Sherlock, I do not get my kicks from bad touching dead people. It's horrifying and messed up. Some cruel joke the Universe has played on me.'

Sherlock thought for a moment.

'So the touching was purely a means to an end?'

'Of course!' John said, appalled.

'Well, you can't fault me for reaching a different conclusion, based on the evidence available. Bringing people back from the dead by sexually touching them didn't seem a terribly plausible scenario.'

Sherlock swept his hair, caked with fake blood out of his face. It wasn't much to work with, he really could have used a mirror.

'Does that mean you didn't want to touch me?'

John blushed a deep red, and stammered. 'Sherlock, I would never, NEVER...'

'Yes, John, I know, it's a terrible moral dilemma, and you would never take advantage of me in my deceased state. However as you can see I am very much alive and willing.'

John blushed even deeper.  
'Okay. Well, that's... good. Good.'

'I am glad I won't have to play at being dead to get into your bed. Not that I have any particular objection to doing so, but it does exclude a whole range of possible activities…’  
'Sherlock?'  
'Hmmm?'  
'Please shut up.'  
‘I believe there’s a mutually beneficial solution to this particular dilemma.’

For a second John looked confused, then determined. It was the same look he got when he decided that Sherlock was mad, but he was going to follow his mad plans anyway. It was Sherlock's favourite out of all of John's looks.

Then John lent in and swept him up in a scorching kiss.  
John kissed passionately, determinedly. Wholeheartedly. He'd been crying earlier, and Sherlock could taste his tears. He kissed like he got Sherlock back from the dead and was never going to let him go again. 

It not only shut Sherlock up for a good long while, but was almost enough to shut his brain down. Almost. Such was the power of kissing Doctor Three Continents John Watson.

And now he would have Moriarty’s network crashing down around him, and John fighting by his side, all around the world. Things couldn’t have turned out better.


End file.
